


The Christmas Thief

by aurilly



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Cross-Generational Friendship, Crossover, Dimension Travel, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 09:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has been stealing Edmund’s presents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Christmas Thief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [turkeyish](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=turkeyish).



> Thanks to jaune_chat for the beta!

Edmund’s been told time and again, by parents and by beavers, that good little boys do not sneak out of their beds to wait for Father Christmas.

But Edmund isn’t a particularly good little boy. He may have been cured of his more extreme vices, but he’s hardly become Little Lord Fauntleroy. 

_We really ought to get owls for the night guard_ , he thinks as he climbs over slumbering jaguars and foxes who consumed too much Christmas Eve punch. However, the inefficient scheduling plays to his advantage tonight.

It’s very late, and the coldness of the marble floors chills his feet even through his slippers as he makes his way down the long, circular stairway that connects his tower suite (they each have one, one per corner of the castle; of course Peter’s faces True North, and Lucy’s faces due East, while Edmund’s faces something like South West) to the Throne Room.

Faint moonlight creates odd shadows on the mad construction the fawns and dryads have set up in the center of the hall. It looks more like a May Pole than a Christmas tree to Edmund, but he has been too polite to say anything. The good creatures, so eager to please their monarchs, didn’t _quite_ understand the queer Spare Oom traditions Susan had so patiently tried to explain.

Edmund yawns as he crouches under the large Council Table and settles in to wait. His eyes close and next thing he knows, there are presents under the May Pole. He curses his luck. He knows it was his own fault last year, but it feels as though everyone else in Narnia has met Father Christmas except for him.

He’s about to crawl out from under the table and head back to bed when he hears footsteps nearby. The figure rummaging through the gifts seems rather too thin and beardless to be Father Christmas, but Edmund can’t imagine who else it might be, and attributes any anomalies about his appearance to a trick of the light. At any rate, Edmund’s too excited about catching him after all to think too much about it.

But the man is gone before Edmund can properly get to his feet. Just vanished, without having used any of the doors. He remembers the saying Lucy repeated. “Locks and bolts make no difference to him.” 

The next morning, the closest members of the court join the four kings and queens for a merry breakfast of hot chocolate and pudding. Edmund has presents enough⎯lovely ones from his siblings and his friends⎯but the one that would signify that he’s back in good graces… that’s the one he lacks. 

Lucy’s the only one who notices he’s out of sorts, and asks him what’s wrong.

“I miss having a real Christmas tree,” he grumbles, knowing it was he himself who instituted the laws against cutting down trees for frivolous purposes.

“Oh, Ed,” she sighs. “Buck up. Look at all your presents. What did Father Christmas give you?”

He pretends to be called away by Mister Tumnus so he will neither have to answer her nor lie.

* * *

Next Christmas Eve, he releases a horde of bats he’s been collecting for just this occasion into the hallway outside his bedroom. The owls he’s finally hired as regular night sentries are so distracted by the tasty treats that they don’t see him slip out and down the stairs.

Edmund wants a word with Father Christmas, an explanation of what he needs to do in order to be forgiven.

This time, he’s armed with the precaution of having taken a nap earlier in the day. Between that and the strong tea he’s been keeping in one of Mrs. Beaver’s thermoses (last year’s present from the couple), there’s no way he’ll fall asleep and miss Father Christmas again.

Until, of course, he does. 

But this time, when he wakes up, it’s in time to see the same dark figure from before rooting through the boxes under the May Pole (Edmund still can’t call it anything else). 

The moon tonight is fuller, and gives enough light to make it clear that this is _not_ Father Christmas. This man is tall and thin and dressed in the strangest of clothes: not the friendly colours the Narnian and Archenlander seamstresses prefer, nor even the trim lines and pleated pants he dimly remembers from England. There is a superfluity of dark creped fabric and peculiarly cut leather here.

What damns the man as an unwanted intruder is the way Edmund sees him take one of the presents and hide it in his coat.

He wishes he had his sword, but he hardly expected the need to arm himself whilst waiting in his own home for Father Christmas (a lesson for the future, he thinks). So, instead, he uses the tackling move the new fencing master King Lune sent from Archenland taught him last week. 

The man doesn’t see it coming, so even though Edmund is less than half his size, the maneuver works. Edmund pins him to the ground and ties the intruder’s arms behind him with his own cravat.

But when he finally sees who has defeated him, the man has the gall to laugh. 

“I got caught by a little boy? I’m never going to live this down.”

Edmund goes very red in the face, which he knows never helps to make him look older, but he’s been insulted and hasn’t yet learned to manage his temper.

“I am no little boy,” he begins crossly, but is cut off by yet another aggravating laugh.

“Sorry, but have you looked in the mirror lately?”

Edmund steps on the man’s chest, drawing himself up to his full (if still not very imposing) height and wearing the regal look he’s been practicing. There are no other humans in Narnia, and even all the Archenlanders have learned to recognize the Pevensies, so this man must hail from very far away indeed not to know him. 

Edmund has learned that it’s good manners for a knight to formally introduce himself to his prisoner.

“My name is Edmund. King Edmund of Narnia. This is my realm, my castle, and you are a trespasser here.”

The main raises an eyebrow, not impressed. “Cute story. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“Lower your voice,” Edmund whispers sharply.

Because, yes, he should be in bed. Kings don’t get into _trouble_ per se, but if he’s caught, he’ll have to suffer that High King look from Peter (Edmund knows very well the one), not to mention a tiresome lecture from Susan about ‘conduct befitting a monarch’ and how ‘it’s already difficult enough to gain respect at our age without going about acting like children’, and even Lucy will wring her hands and say, ‘Oh _Ed_ …’ in a disappointed tone that’s almost worse than the look or the lecture. So, no, kings don’t get into trouble, but naughty little brothers still get an awful lot of bother and nagging that Edmund would rather avoid.

The man tries to wriggle free, but without the use of his arms, there isn’t much he can do.

“Why are you here?” Edmund presses down harder on the man’s neck. “I will know if you lie.”

The man stares at him with new interest. He seems to sense that Edmund’s telling the truth.

“I do my best work on Christmas Eve,” he finally explains. “That Father Christmas is a _gold mine_. Magic potions, enchanted weapons, objects woven with self-replenishment spells. What I wouldn’t give to have a go at that bag of his…”

Edmund’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “So you’re a thief.”

“I prefer ‘procurer of rare and magical artifacts. But sure. Call it whatever you want. I mean, you’re the king.”

Edmund doesn’t appreciate the continued tone of jest in the man’s voice. “Among my special responsibilities as king are trial and punishment. I have captured you, and shall have you prosecuted for your crimes.”

“But you won’t. Because you don’t want anyone to know you were down here tonight.”

Edmund knows when his bluff has been called.

“And anyway,” the man continues, “what crimes? I haven’t done anything.”

Edmund reaches into the man’s coat and pulls out the small box he saw him slip into his pocket. The tag reads ‘For King Edmund’ in the handsome, looping handwriting he saw on other people’s gifts last year. He feels a wave of relief, and the answer to last year’s question suddenly becomes clear.

“You were stealing my present. You stole it last year, too.” And Edmund can’t help it; the steely resolve of the king cracks, and the naked disappointment of the little boy comes through. “You made me think Father Christmas still thought me too naughty to deserve a gift. You made me think I would never be good enough. Why would you do something like that?”

And this is when Edmund learns that showing weakness is sometimes a more effective tactic than strong-armed bluster. Because the man stops smirking, and for the first time during their conversation, he actually looks ashamed.

“I didn’t know. I just saw something labeled for a king, and figured he would hardly miss one little present… I’m sorry. I had no way of knowing it meant so much to you. I didn’t realize it was for a child.” 

The mistake is understandable, and the man seems genuinely penitent, which is good enough for the king who is already gaining a reputation for being just. 

“How did you get in here?” Edmund asks, now more curious about his guest than angry. “We have a sentinel of centaurs stationed outside the palace gates.”

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t come in through the entrance, then.” The man grimaces, and Edmund wonders what mishaps he’s had with centaurs in the past. “I’m Jefferson, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” Edmund says politely, although he’s still deciding if this actually _is_ nice.

“It was a helmet, just so you know.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your present last year. It was a helmet enchanted to withstand the heaviest blows. Not even dwarves can make something that impenetrable. Father Christmas must think those brains of yours are worth extra protection.”

“Where is it now? May I have it back?”

“Sorry. I sold it months ago. Things like that go for a high price where I’m from.”

“And where is that?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“I order you to tell me.” Edmund stands up straight again. “Remember, you are my prisoner.”

Jefferson laughs. (Maddening.) “I’m from another world. And I know you’re going to say that’s impossible, because I’m sure you think this is the only world, but it isn’t. There are infinite⎯”

Jefferson’s about to launch into a well-practiced lecture on a topic that Edmund has already learned from experience. “You don’t need to explain it to me. I’m not from this world, either.”

This gets Jefferson’s attention more than anything else so far. “Tell me more.”

Edmund can hear the centaurs approaching the entrance to do the hourly interior rounds. “Not here,” he says hurriedly. “Can I trust you?”

“Not usually. But I want to make it up to you, so I’ll make an exception.”

Edmund unties Jefferson’s hands and drags him back to the South West staircase. “We’ll hide you in my room for now. It won’t do to let the centaurs find you. Or my brother. The High King might not go as easy on you as I will.”

“This country has more than one king?” Jefferson shakes his head as he runs. “That’s a new one.” 

“You don’t know the half of it.”

They’ve only gone up two steps before he hears the owls hooting amongst themselves. 

“We’re trapped,” Edmund says, looking around him for another option that he knows isn’t there.

“I thought you were the king. Aren’t these _your_ bodyguards? What’s the problem?”

“You’ve obviously never had an older brother or sister.”

“Understood. Leave this to me, little king.” He pulls a cap out of his satchel and, with a decadent sense of panache, he throws it on the floor along with his own top hat. “I don’t often bring a spare, but you’re in luck.”

Edmund gapes as both hats begin spinning and growing in front of them. “What are you doing?”

“Getting us out of here. Hop in and just keep thinking that you want to stay with me, Jefferson. Keep repeating it to yourself.”

It’s nothing like travel through the wardrobe had been. There’s a purple whoosh, and then Edmund’s standing next to Jefferson on a road that cuts through an old forest. He has to blink his eyes at the sunshine, for it’s suddenly morning, in late spring. 

Edmund gets a nasty chill as he realizes he’s effectively been kidnapped, in the most extreme way possible. He doesn’t know how or why he’s let himself get into this predicament, but it’s an adventure, one that more than makes up for the one Peter, Susan and Lucy had with Father Christmas two years ago while he was making a colossal ass of himself. 

Plus, Edmund is a good judge of character, whose advice even Peter seeks. Jefferson may be flippant, mercenary and a thief, but he isn’t bad-hearted. 

“Where are we?”

“This is my world. I’ve found that they all smell different, feel different. Does this seem familiar? Is this where you’re from?” Jefferson asks keenly, trying to put together a puzzle that Edmund isn’t privy to. 

Edmund sniffs, trying to smell and feel whatever it is Jefferson expects him to. The theory turns out to be true. “No. The air here has too much magic in it to be where I’m from.”

Jefferson’s eyebrows fly to the top of his forehead and off to one side. The man makes ridiculous faces; he’s as hard not to laugh at as an over-eager Talking Dog. “Too much magic, huh? Interesting. Come on. We shouldn’t talk about this here. Someone might hear.”

Edmund can’t think who, as they’re completely alone and the trees here don’t seem to be listening, but he trots after Jefferson anyway, doing his best to keep up with the man’s long strides and to keep his feet from slipping out of his plush slippers. Despite the morning sunshine, it’s still the middle of the night for him, so he yawns the entire way. _This must be what they say air travel to America is like, when day is night and everything confused,_ he thinks as he covers his mouth.

An intelligent-looking deer wanders towards them. 

“Good morning,” Edmund says politely, as he does every time he passes an animal.

Jefferson looks at Edmund as though he’s gone mad. “What are you doing?”

“Do the animals not speak in this world?” 

“No,” Jefferson scoffs at the concept. But when the deer begins follows them, rubbing against Edmund like an old friend, he notes, “But you’re clearly doing _something_ right.” 

A few minutes later, the sound of carriage wheels behind them causes Jefferson to drag Edmund behind a tree to hide. Together, they watch as a royal procession drives down the road. Two lovely, wooly white horses drag an open carriage in which sits a grown-up man and the prettiest little girl Edmund’s ever seen. Behind them follows another carriage containing another man and little girl.

“Who’s that?” Edmund asks, mouth agape, and suddenly shy in his slippers and pajamas. If only he had his crown on his head and a sword at his hip…

“In the first carriage is King Leopold, and his daughter, the Princess Snow White. And behind them is King Midas, and his daughter the Princess Abigail.”

“King Midas? Snow White? But those are just stories. Are they named after the characters?”

“Stories?” Jefferson looks confused.

It’s something Edmund hasn’t thought about in a long time, but it all comes back to him. “Snow White grows up to be very beautiful, and her evil stepmother, the queen, hates her. The queen poisons Snow White with an enchanted apple that mostly kills her. She falls under some sort of sleeping curse. It turns out all right in the end, though. A Prince comes along and kisses her awake. My sister Lucy loves that story.” 

Jefferson looks both impressed and confused. “Are you a prophet as well as a king?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Princess does indeed have a step-mother who has recently begun practicing the dark arts. I met her a few weeks ago, doing a job for her instructor. She was in the middle of learning the famous Sleeping Curse. And she does indeed hate Snow White for some reason.”

This all sounds very strange to Edmund, who can’t make out how such an old story, even if it’s true, hasn’t yet played out in real time. “Well, shouldn’t we warn the Princess that she is in danger?”

Jefferson thinks. “Not worth it. Especially not if you already know the story has a happy ending.”

Edmund stands up straight and reaches for the sword that isn’t there. “A knight does not allow a lady to fall into danger, no matter what the prophesied outcome.”

Jefferson chuckles. “Right. I keep forgetting you’re a king. And a knight, too, apparently. Not to mention a prophet from an entirely other world who talks to animals. You’re officially the busiest and most interesting little boy I’ve ever met. When do you have time for school?”

“After our daily council meetings.”

“Bet you hate lessons.”

“Ever so much.”

“I did, too.” 

They smile at one another, suddenly twin souls. The deer, who’s still trailing them, becomes jealous, and nuzzles harder against Edmund’s side. 

Only too late does Edmund realize the digression was meant to distract him from his desire to speak to the princess. The carriage is far ahead of them on the road now, too far to catch up to on foot.

He needs to start paying more attention to what’s going on.

“Where are we going?” he asks. 

“My house.” 

They walk through a town that’s dirty and disorganized and terribly primitive. Everyone in the market stops to stare at Edmund, who, in his elaborately embroidered housecoat and with his pet deer looks every bit the exotic pasha from a faraway and mystical land (they’re more right than they know). A few even bow, instinctively. Jefferson watches all this with ever-increasing respect for his little guest. A few minutes later, they arrive at a grand house at the very edge of the town. 

“Sorry, but no animals allowed inside.”

Edmund kisses the deer between the eyes. “This is where we part ways, Friend. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

Jefferson watches in awe as the deer licks Edmund’s face before walking sadly back towards the forest. 

“Would you like some tea, your highness?” he asks when they’re inside, using Edmund’s title for the first time, and without irony.

“Yes, please.”

He looks around while Jefferson heats the water. He hasn’t seen much of this world, but he can see the differences between it and Narnia, and even England. In Narnia and beyond, people use swords, and electricity is a thing unheard of, but even the poorest Archenlanders have comfortable appliances and trinkets. However, the obviously wealthy Jefferson has rough stone floors, poorly crafted rugs and pots like Edmund has only seen in medieval museums. 

“We’re safe here,” Jefferson says once the tea is made and he’s unlocking a room that’s been sealed with what Edmund guesses is a magic spell. “I want to hear about your world. This world that apparently doesn’t smell like magic.”

Edmund shrugs. “It isn’t very interesting. Not like Narnia.”

“Oh, but it is to me.”

So, while Jefferson roots around in the room he’s opened (and which turns out to be a gigantic safe), Edmund tries his best to tell him about life in England, about the war and trains and their little house in Finchley and his terrible school.

It’s only been two years, and it occurs to him that he already has forgotten quite a lot, which is disconcerting…

“Sounds like magic to me,” Jefferson says when Edmund explains about radios.

“I know, but trust me, it isn’t.”

“How did you get from there to Narnia?”

It comes out in a confused jumble, but Jefferson seems to get the idea. He kneels down in front of Edmund, more serious than he has yet been since they met. 

“You’re telling me there’s a door… that from Narnia one can just _walk_ over into a world without magic?”

Edmund hasn’t thought about it in those terms but… “Yes, I suppose so. Somewhere around Lantern Waste. Why? What’s wrong?”

Jefferson pulls at his hair and cravat in anxiety. “I need you to promise me something. We never had this conversation. We never talked about a world without magic. If you ever see me again in Narnia in the company of the man who hires me for jobs sometimes… There’s no such door. There’s no such connection from Narnia to your world. I know you’re a knight and a king and probably don’t like to tell lies, but sometimes lies need to be told. This is one of those times. Is that understood?”

“Yes, but why?”

“There’s a man here, a very dangerous man… Actually, Rumpelstiltskin’s more of a golden, giggling imp than a man. He desperately wants to get to a world without magic. I’ve been going along with it, taking odd jobs for the money, because I’ve always been confident that it doesn’t matter, that nothing I can do will ever get him there.” Jefferson grips Edmund’s shoulders, almost painfully. “He _can’t_ get there, your highness. No good will come of it.”

“I understand.” (Meanwhile, he’s thinking, _Rumpelstiltskin?_ )

“Good,” Jefferson says, and goes back to tossing various objects from the vault room at Edmund’s feet.

“What are you doing?” Edmund finally asks, when these activities become too distracting. 

“Making it up to you. I stole your present last year. I figure I can give you something else instead. Why don’t you see what Father Christmas gave you while I finish sorting through all this?”

Edmund has almost forgotten about the small package in his housecoat pocket. He supposes it _is_ Christmas morning, in a sense. He unwraps the paper and finds a box containing just an envelope.

“It’s addressed to both of us,” he says, feeling disappointed all over again. 

“What?” Jefferson rips the envelope open and they read it together.

_To His Royal Highness King Edmund of Narnia,  
in the company of Jefferson the Portal Jumper,_

_The truly penitent are always forgiven, my child, no matter how great_  
the crime. You have deserved a gift since the moment you repented.  
(However, next year, you would do well to stay in bed as you’re told.) 

_In addition to the adventure you have been enjoying, you are to request  
two gifts (not just one) from that jackanapes of a milliner,  
whom I promise to begin visiting as soon as he stops stealing other people’s gifts. _

_Merry Christmas_

Jefferson laughs heartily. “Will do, Father Christmas, will do,” he whispers to the absent writer. Then he turns to Edmund. “Sounds like you did something pretty serious awhile back.”

“I was a blood traitor,” Edmund says, going white with shame and hoping Jefferson will still want to be… friends, or whatever it is they are now. “I sold out my family, for candy.”

To his relief, Jefferson whistles, but does not judge. “How old are you, eleven? Twelve? How have you had time to live such a full life?”

Edmund looks at the tea, the top hat, the letter, and finally at Jefferson as a new thought comes to him. “You’re a milliner? Isn’t that the same as a ‘hatter’?”

“I suppose so.”

“Have you ever met a girl named Alice?”

“Can’t say that I have. Wait. Is this another one of your prophecies?”

“I’m not sure. You seem more eccentric than mad, but…” he says, more to himself, as he starts to piece together what kind of world this might be, populated as it seems to be with people from stories and legends.

“I’m not going to ask.” Jefferson takes a sip of tea and makes another of his ridiculous faces that, honestly, should clear all doubts. He gestures at the pile of treasure at Edmund’s feet. “So, what do you want? Here is everything I have collected, carefully sourced from more worlds than you can imagine.” 

“I don’t know what to pick. I don’t even know what most of these things are.” Edmund gravitates towards a beautifully crafted sword that gleams almost blue in the light.

“That’s mithril. A legendary metal in the world it comes from. Nice place; great weed. If it’s a sword you want, I have another one made out of Valyrian Steel, the strongest metal from a world that is less nice, but has great… actually, that’s not for little ears. But I’ll tell you the truth… Mithril? Valyrian Steel? It’s all the same shit.”

“What’s this?” Edmund asks, picking up a large, silvery cloak made out of a heavier material than he’s ever felt before. 

“Invisibility cloak. Very rare. Might come in handy for boys like you, who like to sneak out of bed.”

Edmund thinks of the plans he and Susan have been drafting to keep tabs on the Calormene ambassadors who are coming to Cair Paravel in a few months; this would come more than in handy. 

“Yes, I’ll take this, if you please.”

“That’s fine. What else? Look,” Jefferson says, holding a small vial up to the light. “Here’s the Powder of Life. Brings inanimate objects to life. I pinched it from a place called Oz.”

Edmund pulls a face. “I can see that leading to more trouble than it’s worth. No thanks.”

“Smart boy.”

All the greatest treasures from all the worlds are piled haphazardly at his feet, but Edmund’s gaze is drawn to the odd, and oddly fascinating man beside them. His eyes wander to the satchel Jefferson dropped in a chair when they walked in. He suddenly knows what to ask for. “What I would most like is to see _you_ again after tonight… today… I’m not sure what time it is.”

“Me?” Jefferson softens, and looks rather touched, almost misty-eyed. To hide it, he puts on his most tiresome grown-up face as he follows Edmund’s gaze and understands what he means. “Portals aren’t toys.”

“I would only use it to find you, and would promise only to use it when we can go somewhere together. You could even enchant it so that it works that way,” he suggests. 

Jefferson rocks his head back and forth, thinking to himself. “Not a bad idea.” He takes the hat out of his bag and heads off towards another room. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

While Jefferson is in his workshop, Edmund compares the mithril and Valyrian Steel swords and finds that it’s true; they really are quite similar. A few minutes later, Jefferson returns.

“All done. When you want to come find me, just do what you did before. Picture me really closely, and tell yourself you want to go exactly where and when I am. That way you’ll find me, even if I’m on a trip. It’s set to only work for you, and only work to find me. Understand?”

“Yes,” Edmund replies with a yawn that he hopes won’t be interpreted as ungrateful. He truly _is_ excited, but this midnight adventure is beginning to take its toll on him.

“It’s probably time to get you home.” Jefferson rolls the invisibility cloak up into a ball and hands it to Edmund. “Where’s a good place for us to land? Your bedroom?”

“Yes, please.”

Jefferson teaches Edmund the trick of the wrist that will make the hat spin when thrown at the floor. One moment they’re in the middle of Jefferson’s sitting room, and the next, they’re safe in Edmund’s bedroom. The moon is still high in the sky, as though no time has passed since he slipped out.

“Next time you come to Narnia,” Edmund says as they hug goodbye, “come during the day, and through the front door. Ask for me, and I will receive you in full court state, as my personal friend.”

“And how exactly did we meet?” Jefferson says with a wink. 

“Oh,” Edmund says, as he realizes the difficulty. “On second thought, introduce yourself as a visitor from a faraway land. I’ll receive you and we can ‘become friends’ then.”

“Something tells me you’re going to make quite a crafty king someday.”

“Next time, I’ll bring my own sword,” Edmund says, already looking forward to their next adventure.

“Why don’t you start with real shoes first?” he says, pointing at Edmund’s ruined velvet slippers. 

After he’s gone, Edmund notices a box on the table in front of which Jefferson had been leaning. The man must have had it hidden in his bag and taken it out when Edmund wasn’t looking. There are two tags: one with his name that has been repurposed from the Father Christmas box containing the envelope; and another in a different handwriting.

_”To the busiest little boy in the multiverse,  
who is playing with swords while I write this,_

_Get down there early and put this under that hideous pole you_  
people have (what  is that thing?), since you probably  
don’t want everyone to know about the cloak or the hat,  
and since you also don’t want them thinking you’re still  
a blood traitor who doesn’t deserve presents. 

_See you soon,  
-Jefferson_

_PS - I lie. A lot._

Edmund wonders what the postscript means, but he’s too sleepy to think about it now. He hides his two gifts and Jefferson’s note under the mattress where his dryad maids never remember to dust, and collapses in his bed. The continued presence of the box on the table when he wakes is proof that the adventure was more than just a dream.

“What did you get from Father Christmas?” Lucy asks later, when they’re in the Great Hall and surrounded by friends.

“I don’t know. I haven’t unwrapped it yet.” Edmund pulls Jefferson's mystery present from under the May Pole where he subtly placed it on his way to breakfast. 

It’s a helmet.


End file.
